


Covering Me With You

by pt_tucker



Series: A Little TLC (Tender Loving Cats) [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cat/Human Hybrids, Catboy!Mycroft, Catboy!Sherlock, Catboys & Catgirls, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Mycroft, Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scenting, Sherlock's POV, Sibling Incest, submissive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5559254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How <em>did</em> Mycroft make his scent so strong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covering Me With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/gifts).



> Another one in the series. While these do have a general sort of plot, this is really just sexy times between our dear Holmes catboys. So you probably won't miss much if you want to skip it. :)
> 
> No beta, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to LMK!

“What did he say?” Mycroft asked the next day while John was at work. 

Sherlock paused the idle plucking of violin strings to glance over at his brother. Mycroft was flipping through something on his phone – emails, obviously – but Sherlock could see his interest underneath the manufactured nonchalance. He went back to toying with his violin.

“He wanted to know how you managed to make the smell so strong.” 

“And what was your answer?” Mycroft’s gaze remained on his mobile, but his full attention shifted to Sherlock. His voice held a certain level of blandness to it that could only be attained when he was actively scrubbing it of all inflection.

“I said you were thorough and motivated.” 

“Hmm,” Mycroft huffed out, amused. He dropped the pretense of reading his messages and allowed his gaze to drift over Sherlock. “Yes, I was,” he said, his pitch dropping down to a depth that had Sherlock picking up his bow in an attempt to ignore his growing arousal.

“He thinks you sprayed me,” Sherlock continued, and they both rolled their eyes.

“While the idea does have merit, surely he realizes there are more pleasant ways to accomplish the task?” 

“Pleasant for you.” Sherlock jerked the bow across his violin, producing a sound that could only be considered violent. His skin had itched for hours after Mycroft’s application.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, as if it was clear that his pleasure was the only one of importance. He wasn’t entirely incorrect.

“John’s still in denial.” Sherlock’s ears shifted back and his tail flicked irritably. 

It’d been Mycroft’s idea to ease John into their relationship by allowing him to grow used to various aspects of it, one at a time. Sherlock would have preferred to skip the act and tell him outright, but he had to admit, _silently_ , that Mycroft’s plan appeared to be working. John had taken the news of Mycroft’s claim with far more calm and acceptance than Sherlock would have thought possible.

“He will be for some time. As much as he might already suspect, he’ll choose the socially acceptable explanations over the logical ones until forced to do otherwise.”

“I know,” Sherlock snapped. If anyone knew how John was most likely to react, it would be _him_. While Mycroft’s plan may have been working, Sherlock knew that his would have as well. And his idea would have had the additional bonus of earning Mycroft a punch to the face, if one counted on John’s usual fight response to situations he perceived as unjust. 

Mycroft’s tail swished lazily and something almost mocking crossed his face, as if Sherlock was a kitten toying with a ball of yarn far too large for his size. Sherlock’s own tail slowed as he narrowed his eyes at his brother. Their gazes locked for several seconds. 

Sherlock set his instrument to the side.

Then he pounced. He landed in Mycroft’s lap, and the resulting scuffle was glorious, albeit brief. While Sherlock was faster and more trained in the art of fighting, his brother was the dominant of the two of them, and it took only a few minutes for the other cat to have him pinned on the floor. Sherlock’s tail curled around his brother’s while Mycroft held him on his stomach, his hands pressed against Sherlock’s pinned wrists.

Leaning close, Mycroft whispered into his ear, “I think you require another round of claiming, brother mine.”

“I’ve been reliably informed that I already reek of you.” Sherlock blanked his expression. He refused to let Mycroft see the excitement in his face, even if his brother could read it his body language and smell it in the pheromones Sherlock was already starting to release.

Mycroft pressed his nose to Sherlock’s neck and inhaled. “Yes, you do.” He breathed the words against Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock shivered, and made a half-hearted attempt to buck him off. Mycroft pressed more of his weight down on him and inhaled again, this time flicking his tongue out to lap at the skin above his collarbone. Sherlock couldn’t help but suck in a breath himself, if for an entirely different reason.

His brother kept him secure with one hand and his knee while he pulled out what Sherlock knew to be his mobile. It was a point in Sherlock’s favor that his brother texted rather than attempted to speak, and Sherlock didn’t bother to hide the triumphant curl of his lips as he glanced over his shoulder at him. Mycroft responded by attaching his mouth to the spot he’d licked, this time sucking until Sherlock let out an involuntary mewl. John would wonder about the resulting bruise.

“Submit,” Mycroft ordered. He leaned back onto Sherlock’s upper thighs, though not before biting the peak of his left ear in warning. Sherlock felt the hands on his wrists loosen, but not release, as Mycroft waited for his compliance.

Sherlock hissed at him and attempted to smack him in the back of the head with his tail, but was thwarted by Mycroft’s tail winding around his tightly. He struggled to the point of almost knocking Mycroft off, but all that earned him was his erection being ground into the carpet and second bite on his neck, this time on the opposite side. He wiggled underneath his brother anyway, even as his instincts told him to accept the dominant cat’s authority. Sherlock could feel Mycroft’s cock pressing into his arsecrack. 

The heady smell of his brother’s arousal was intoxicating. 

Eventually, Mycroft tired of their foreplay and pressed a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck in a warning that wasn’t to be ignored. Sherlock stilled immediately and even went so far as to tilt his head to the side as much as Mycroft’s grip and the floor would allow, offering his brother the opportunity to mark him again if he so chose. Lips touched an unblemished patch of skin to the right of his previous mark as Mycroft accepted his invitation. Sherlock couldn’t have stopped the noise he subsequently released if it’d been his last and only purpose left in life. 

“Good,” Mycroft said, his voice soft. His hand slid off Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock’s ear tip was once more treated to Mycroft’s teeth, but this time the bite was more of a playful nibble than an order to behave. He felt the weight lift from his thighs and his wrists were released in favor of light fingertips trailed across his lower back. Mycroft’s legs were still to either side of his, but their tails were only loosely intertwined. He was free to escape if he wished. 

Sherlock rolled over so he could better watch Mycroft’s work.

He was rewarded with a demanding kiss. His brother’s tongue slipped in to tangle with his own, much like their tails were tangling as they both tightened their grips until the two tails were one. Sherlock sucked on his brother’s tongue, and Mycroft returned the favor, and soon a battle commenced in which they attempted to kiss each other senseless. His brother tasted of Earl Grey – green, not black (he was trying to lose weight again) – and white chocolate (he wasn’t trying very hard).

Not breaking the kiss, Sherlock blindly reached for Mycroft’s jacket. His brother helped him in sliding it off his shoulders and then, once they’d parted, in undoing his tie and rolling up his sleeves. Their focus shifted to Sherlock then, though Sherlock himself was able to contribute little as his brother took his hands and very pointedly placed them by his sides. Mycroft didn’t have to issue an order for Sherlock to know it was one. 

Sherlock’s cock begged for more attention as Mycroft pressed their pelvic areas together, but he remained still as his brother meticulously unbuttoned his shirt with speed that burned with its complete lack of haste. Mycroft’s gaze caught his as Mycroft looked up from the buttons. His brother’s eyes drifted towards the discarded tie, and Sherlock knew what was coming before he reached for it. Mycroft didn’t even do him the service of tying it; he merely let the tie fall down across his face - the unspoken expectation that Sherlock would obey.

The soft cloth of his shirt tickled his chest as Mycroft pushed it open. Then Sherlock felt hands on his belt, followed by a pressure on his trouser zipper. The black leather pulled free of the trouser loops, and Sherlock was given the silent command to lift his hips by a not-so-gentle tug on his waistband. Then down everything went at once, leaving him bare to Mycroft’s gaze. And Sherlock _knew_ Mycroft was staring. He always stared.

Sherlock flushed as his brother’s unseen attention drifted across his body. He had to grasp at the carpet as his arousal punched him in the stomach and left him silently begging for another hit. Goosebumps rolled across his skin in waves as he estimated just where Mycroft’s focus might lie at any given moment. Experience told him that his brother’s eyes would never linger long on one spot, though he would return to it multiple times, much like Sherlock did when checking in on an experiment. 

“Wider,” Mycroft said, the word monotone and tinged with boredom. 

Sherlock snorted; Mycroft reeked of arousal. Their tails rocked back and forth together as Sherlock tried to untangle them enough to make another attempt at smacking Mycroft with his. Mycroft’s muscles clenched, and Sherlock found himself completely trapped. Aggravated with his failure, he spread his legs only a few centimeters. 

Mycroft sighed and pushed himself between them so that Sherlock was forced to open wider to accommodate his brother’s fat shoulders. The noise he released when a gloriously warm mouth slid along his cock was something straight out of one of John’s awful porn videos. His body froze as his brain attempted to push his hips down while his cock attempted to push them up. Sherlock released another noise, this one promising anything and everything his brother desired and then some so long as he allowed him to come in his mouth _right then_.

It was an empty promise that he had no intention of fulfilling whatsoever, and so he wasn’t that surprised when his saliva-slickened cock was left twitching in the now empty air above his stomach. Disappointed, yes - disappointed enough to hiss and wriggle his hips in uncontrolled annoyance - but not surprised.

_“Mycroft.”_ Sherlock could hear the rustle of Mycroft’s clothing as his brother dug something out of his pocket.

“There’s four hours until John is expected home,” Mycroft said. It’d been his mobile he’d taken out, then. “Factoring in time for pheromone removal and a joint shower, that gives me three hours and twenty-two minutes to reapply my scent. We wouldn’t want you to become bored in that time.” Mycroft’s tone implied that this was all Sherlock’s fault somehow.

Sherlock hissed and snapped his legs shut so that they hit Mycroft’s sides. Mycroft’s reprimand came in the form of a nip to his hip, just above his pelvic bone. Sherlock smacked him again, and this time Mycroft snarled in response. The sound sent a sharp spike of alarm through his spine that had Sherlock freezing, and then spreading his legs to the point of discomfort when Mycroft gently pushed against them.

_“Mycroft,”_ Sherlock whined again as his brother stood. He could close his legs now that Mycroft wasn’t between them, but he didn’t. His cock, impossibly, was even harder now.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s erection in favor of releasing his own. The sound of the zipper sliding down caused Sherlock’s ears to tilt forward as he listened, his body taunt with anticipation. 

Mental images replaced what he wasn’t able to see: pictures of Mycroft’s cock, long and fat, flushed red with blood; his balls, not as impressive as his cock, but still highly respectable, ready to snap up tight against his body right when needed; his hands, always one of Sherlock’s favorites, leisurely sliding across his cock and slipping below to fondle his balls and massage his perineum as he contemplated how best to fuck his baby brother. 

Sherlock shuddered and felt the first drops of pre-cum dribble out of his slit and meander its way down his cockhead. Mycroft scooped the liquid up with a finger and leaned across Sherlock’s body to offer it to him. Sherlock opened his mouth obediently and sucked on what he judged to be his brother’s index finger. The taste was not something he particularly enjoyed, but in these moments, Mycroft’s will was law. 

He squeezed his eyes shut behind the tie. If Mycroft ordered him to come right then, Sherlock had no doubt he would spurt all over his stomach completely unaided. His head was dizzy with the taste of Mycroft’s power.

The finger slipped from his mouth as Mycroft’s weight lifted off him. Sherlock’s ears strained to catch the sound of footsteps, but, as far as he could tell, Mycroft didn’t actually go anywhere. Sherlock tried not to squirm as something hit the side of the sofa – Mycroft’s shoes, most likely. Mycroft’s clothing meeting the arm of one of the chairs was a much gentler noise. 

Sherlock was soon treated to the sounds of Mycroft’s soft gasps as he, presumably, took himself in hand. The idea of Mycroft standing over him, masturbating, while Sherlock himself was forced to remain unattended, was enough to tempt him into shaking off his blindfold. At the very least, he should be allowed the sight of Mycroft in his shirt and waistcoat, with nothing below save his socks.

As if sensing his thoughts, Mycroft chose that moment to ejaculate all over his shoulders, neck and face. The blindfold was a blessing as his brother’s semen squirted onto his lips, his cheeks, his hair, and even into the top-half of his left ear. It twitched at the invasion. Mycroft’s shaky sigh was all the warning he received before the other dropped down onto Sherlock’s stomach, though thankfully he kept the majority of his weight on his knees. Something warm and sticky and still half-hard pressed against Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock couldn’t help but lift his hips so that is own cock was touching Mycroft in return. He mewled as the tip grazed Mycroft’s arse. His cock was probably purple with need by now and if Mycroft didn’t let him come soon he was going to _cry_ and neither one of them wanted that.

“Do you have a condom?” Mycroft asked. His hands – his delightfully warm hands – massaged his semen into Sherlock’s curls before moving on to the back of his ears. 

“You know I don’t,” Sherlock snapped, shaking his head to dislodge Mycroft’s hand. The ones John kept hidden under his pants, to prevent Sherlock from using them in experiments, were too large for Sherlock’s cock. 

“Unfortunate.” Mycroft rose a handful of centimeters so he could maneuver to wipe the leftover dregs of come on his cock onto Sherlock’s stomach. 

Sherlock raised himself to keep the contact his cock had with Mycroft’s body. Mycroft leaned back onto his heels and rubbed the now-deposited semen around Sherlock’s naval with his hand. Sherlock’s hard jerk of his tail against Mycroft’s was the closest he’d allow himself to scream in frustration. 

“You could take me into your mouth,” Sherlock said, and he was far enough gone that he couldn’t find it within himself to care how much like pleading that sounded.

“I could.” Mycroft continued to idly spread his scent over Sherlock’s skin. The message was undeniably clear: he _could,_ but he wouldn’t. 

As if to taunt him with his refusal, Mycroft sucked the pre-ejaculate off Sherlock’s tip. He replaced it with his own semen. His fingers _just_ grazed Sherlock’s aching cock as he spread the sticky substance around, not granting Sherlock the leverage he needed to finish himself off. Sherlock leaked some more and Mycroft tsked.

Sherlock snarled. He would _strangle_ Mycroft when this was finished. And then he would masturbate over and _over_ and cover every centimeter of himself with his own semen until he’d managed to erase any evidence of Mycroft’s scent. Then he would desecrate Mycroft’s grave in a manner that would make Mummy absolutely horrified but which his annoying, fat brother absolutely deserved.

Mycroft sighed, as if he’d deduced Sherlock’s thoughts and found them childish. Sherlock’s ears flicked back, but then perked forwards as Sherlock felt Mycroft reach towards the chair. He listened to the rustling that indicated his brother had taken something out of his clothing, but his mind was too foggy with need for him to properly analyze whether or not it was his mobile again. Mycroft returned to hovering over Sherlock’s stomach. Then Sherlock’s right hand was flipped over so that the palm lay facing up and a small, squeezable tube was pressed into his fingers. 

“Prepare me,” Mycroft ordered. 

Sherlock’s hands snapped up and he had the tube open before his neurons had even had the time to transmit the demand beyond the _yespleasenowthankyouyesyesmycroftneedyes_ that had run screaming through his brain, out the back door, down the stairs into his Mind Palace, and deep into the recesses of his consciousness, never to be seen again. He tossed the lid and the tube somewhere to the side once he’d squirted what felt like two times the amount he’d actually need into his hands. 

He ran a slick hand over his cock, once. Any more and he’d lose himself to his own lack of control. The hand other teased at Mycroft’s arsehole. Carefully, he slipped in his middle finger. Mycroft grunted, but didn’t tell him to stop, so Sherlock wiggled it around until he found his brother’s prostate. Mycroft stiffened and let out a soft moan. Sherlock cursed the bloody tie: how he wished he could see Mycroft just then. He massaged the gland until he received another uncontrolled noise from his brother.

“No playing, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice breathless. 

Reluctantly, Sherlock continued with his preparations, stretching and scissoring Mycroft until he felt he could probably fit without much discomfort. He lubricated his cock a little more with what was still left on his other hand, and then both hands fell back to the floor, their task completed. Mycroft wasted no time in aligning Sherlock’s cock and then plunging onto it. 

Sherlock would deny the resulting choked sob to his dying day. He squeezed Mycroft’s lower hamstrings as his brother adjusted himself, and then he wailed Mycroft’s name as he glided arse up and down Sherlock’s cock. The pace was slow. Everything Mycroft did was so bloody _slow_ and _torturous_. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to grab his hips and fuck him at his own speed, but of course that was out of the question. Sherlock was expected to suffer in silence, save his unending whimpers and wails and teary yowls. Suffer he did.

Despite Mycroft’s attempts to murder him with his own painful need, Sherlock came with a quickness that might have been embarrassing if he’d not once managed to make his brother ejaculate in his trousers. His cock, already leaking and set to burst at any moment, could only handle four skims of Mycroft’s arse before it released what felt like Sherlock’s entire brain in a stuttered spurt. He was certainly unable to form a single coherent thought during it, at any rate. 

His body narrowed to a single point as Mycroft’s squeezing muscles claimed the last of Sherlock’s semen for themselves. He was fairly certain that if someone cut off his arm right then, he wouldn’t even feel it. All of his nerve endings had been redirected to his cock, which was sensitive enough post-orgasm that he ended up grasping at his brother’s legs and whimpering at him until he finally stopped moving. 

Sherlock pressed his warm cheek into the carpet, not caring how the tie slipped down onto his nose. His eyelids were pressed together anyway, and, as much as he wanted to experience the undoubtedly marvelous sight of Mycroft sitting on him with his bare buttocks engulfing Sherlock’s cock, he was forced to focus on his burning lungs as he attempted to get more oxygen into them. Mycroft remained quiet and Sherlock could only imagine the sight _he_ made – come-spattered, red-faced, and panting like he’d just chased the world’s most dangerous criminal through the streets of London. 

Sherlock counted two-hundred and four seconds of content silence before he regained enough control of himself to poke Mycroft’s tail with his own. When had they come apart? 

His brother twirled them back together, and Sherlock couldn’t help but think of a mother cat curling around the errant kitten that kept trying to wander off. His hands slipped off Mycroft’s legs. A smug sort of pleasure filled him as he noted the soreness in his fingers loosened – Mycroft would have bruises. 

Mycroft adjusted the tie so that it was once again lying across his still-closed eyes. Sherlock was mildly upset that he’d not had the chance to look first, but not upset enough to complain. He wasn’t _anything_ enough to complain. Mycroft’s sharp pinch to his right nipple told him to pay attention. It was time for round two.

**Author's Note:**

> LMK what you think! Comments, kudos & constructive criticism are all welcome!


End file.
